


Control

by holdouttrout



Category: The Pretender
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 07:11:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holdouttrout/pseuds/holdouttrout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jarod thought he was done Pretending. Unbetaed. No spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Control

  


Jarod sits in front of the cafe, pretending.  


He's been pretending things for his whole life, things like hate, and violence, and need, and beneath that, he'd pretended other things, too: sunlight, air, love.  


That was in the Centre, and he'd been very good at the first kind of pretending, and only marginally successful at the second. After all, how could he pretend sunlight when the brightest light he saw was the lamp above his chair in the sim lab? Love was even harder to piece together, a collage of ideals, images, contradictions that he scrambled for in the dark corners, in doubled words, in air vents.  


Outside the Centre, he'd thought he wouldn't have to pretend anymore. He thought maybe, that first year, he was close. He told the truth, although no one believed him, and played an old game with _them_ that seemed exhilarating at the time, as if he had wings that were finally mended and the whole world spread out before him.  


He takes a sip of wine.  


If he told _her_ now, that the world was just another cage with bars of sunshine, he thought she'd laugh her mocking, bitter laugh and tell him that she'd known _that_ all along and he would have been better off never having left.  


Or she might surprise him and laugh her rare, genuine laugh. She'd surprised him more often, since Thomas. She'd say the same thing, though, and her tone would hold the soft wistfulness he still didn't associate with the woman.  


Bitter and brittle and edged like a knife. Parker.  


In his mind, he hears Parker's low chuckle and thinks about the last time she found him, about the scotch she downed before sliding into his bed, about how he can tell the difference between Parker on the hunt and Parker hunting for the Centre by the way the light settles on her hair.  


_Ill met by moonlight,_ he whispered, and she laughed, all sharp edges and smooth hollows. She's an angel for them, flashing eyes and burning cigarettes, and for him she's a quenched blade he helped create but cannot use. Even if she allows his touch, his words, she's never _his_ , if only because, after, she still returns to her own cage.  


Something nags at him, and he shifts, adjusting his glasses, scanning the street. There is someone...  


The man, half a block away, other side of the street. Black suit, casually checking his watch. Again. He looks up, and Jarod follows his eyes, back to the cafe, but not to him. Still, there is something about the man that screams _Centre_ and Jarod stands, gracefully, without drawing any sort of attention to himself, fumbling just enough with his wallet to be believed, leaving the wine half-finished. He is around the corner before he puts it together, turns back.  


He passes the man, now on this side of the street, still casually checking his watch, and winds his way through the tables. He knocks against a woman's chair next to the table where they are seated, two of them, huddled closely together like lovers, only with an air of fear that he can taste. He catches the man's eye as he apologizes, fending off the annoyed gestures of the woman, her insults.  


Although Jarod has never seen them before in his life, the man takes in his glance, his subtle look at his own watch, the head tilt behind him. Understanding flashes in his eyes, and, more quickly, curiosity and gratitude. He pulls the woman out of her seat and drags her into a run. The man with the watch curses and runs after them, completely ignoring Jarod and the irate woman. Jarod follows their progress, distractedly brushing off the woman and backing out of the tables again.  


He wonders how long the Centre will chase them before they decide these two aren't worth the time or money.  


They haven't stopped chasing him yet, and he's pretty sure he's expended his previous worth long ago. He isn't worth much now, damaged, life-heavy, tainted with the stink of experience and not enough pure pretense.  


He knows, now, that the Centre is afraid of him, and he hears Parker's laugh again.  


_It's the only thing they haven't figured out,_ she says, drawing a nail down his thigh. _There are other cages besides walls, ways to hold on without needing hands._ Her tone turns ironic. _God help us all if they realize_ that.


End file.
